


The shrine

by CactusWren



Series: Finger Exercises [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Denial, Grief/Mourning, I have no shame, None whatsoever, Ose, Ose MOROSE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CactusWren/pseuds/CactusWren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking, I've gone mad, but it's the only possibility. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable – but it's impossible, it is <i>impossible</i> for John to be dead.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The shrine

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21697.html?thread=127313089#t127313089):
> 
>  
> 
> _John dies abruptly (because of a case?) and everyone is disturbed by just how okay Sherlock is seems with it. He clearly understands John's dead, he just doesn't seem to care._
> 
> _Some time later, Lestrade drops by with a case and discovers Sherlock is seriously not okay._

 

Sherlock was in the kitchen. “Ah, Lestrade,” he said, not looking up from what he was doing. “It was the _other_ sister-in-law, the one with the dogs.”

“Good,” Lestrade said absently. He was staring at a chair in the living room. “About the – ”

“The body in Gower Street? Yes, be with you in a moment.” He poured boiling water from the kettle into a mug. “Just let me finish up here.”

“That's – new, that footstool, isn't it?” Lestrade attempted, in what he recognised even as he spoke as a hideously false attempt at casualness.

Sherlock still didn't look up. “When a man returns. From.” Lestrade had never heard Sherlock stammer. “When he returns from a, a, a journey, surely he has the right to put his feet up, hasn't he?”

The footstool was upholstered, placed neatly in front of what Lestrade still thought of, after three months, as _John's chair._ A folded paper lay on it – the _Times._ Today's. John's cane leaned against one side of the chair, his laptop against the other.

On the chair's seat were a folded jumper, striped in blue and white, and a pair of warm woollen socks. Lestrade caught a glimpse of darkly gleaming metal under the edge of the jumper. He moved it slightly.

A handgun. Sig Sauer, P226R.

“That's a replacement,” Sherlock said, from directly behind him.

Lestrade turned. Sherlock was facing him, but looking down at the chair – at the gun. “Identical to John's old one, his service weapon. He saved my life with it, and he had it. With him. That day, when … but he might need it. So I replaced it, identical model and no I will not tell you where I got it or from whom.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said slowly, “do you think John is – ”

Sherlock's fists clenched at his temples. Suddenly he whirled away. “Yes, yes, I know what you're thinking, I've gone mad, but it's the only possibility. When you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable – but it's impossible, it is _impossible_ for John to be dead. Therefore.” He was pacing frantically across the room. “So I got that. He'll need it when he, when he … ”

The voice trailed off. Then, suddenly: “He asked me for a miracle, don't you see? The only thing he ever asked of me, I think, a miracle, that I not be dead. But when he asked it I _wasn't_ dead. That proves the possibility of miracles. _Quod erat demonstrandum._ And John is a kind person, not a sociopath, I was cruel to him, I made him wait three years thinking me dead, surely he'd never be that unkind. It could be … _any_ time. Any time. Even today, do you see, so it has to be ready for him. Everything must be ready. Wait. Wait.”

He turned, moving quickly to the kitchen. “There,” he said, returning with a mug in his hand. There was a little table beside the chair, just at the elbow of someone seated there. He put a mug of steaming tea on it. “I put biscuits at first, Hob Nobs, but they went stale,” he said. “There.”

He inspected the arrangement carefully. He twitched the jumper again so that only the edge of the gun peeked from beneath it, adjusted the newspaper to perfect alignment on the footstool. “There,” he repeated. “Oh, the battery.” He seized the laptop and opened it. “I charge it every night, to be certain. But this takes forever to start, it's an old model, I should get him a newer – yes, good.”

He brushed a speck of dust from the screen with his shirt cuff, slapped the computer shut and placed it beside the chair again. “I probably shouldn't have the stick there, but he might need it. When he. When he.” He stared down at the chair again for an instant, then spun away towards the door and snatched his coat from its hook. “Are you _coming?”_ he demanded.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The short pieces I post to the KinkMeme are mostly in the nature of finger exercises for writing: just playing around, seeing if I can fill a prompt (usually not in the nature of anything I'd normally write) while remaining true to the characters as I see them and keeping my writing muscles in shape. So I've called this loose assemblage, mostly of prompt fills, the Finger Exercises series.


End file.
